The corridors of the old tower were quiet, save for the soft rustle of Veyrion Kaelthar’s boots against the cold stone. Midnight had long passed, yet sleep was a stranger to him, as it always had been. His senses, honed over centuries, picked up the faintest anomaly—a scent carried on the stagnant air, sharp and metallic, yet laced with the subtle sweetness of rare herbs. It was faint, yet insistent, tugging at his attention.

He followed the trail with a predator’s precision, silent as a shadow slipping through the dimly lit halls. It led him to the alchemical chamber, where the soft glow of a flame danced behind the doorway, illuminating columns of shelves heavy with ancient tomes and flasks filled with substances whose names were long forgotten by mortal tongues.

Through the archway, he saw her. His apprentice, the girl he had once resisted taking under his wing, stood over a cauldron, her delicate hands moving with unerring precision. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, catching the glow of the magical fire she tended. The room smelled of volatile herbs and simmering elixirs, but it was the faint trace of something more—something ancient and dangerous—that made Veyrion’s eyes narrow.

He stepped closer, silent as the grave, and allowed himself a rare moment to observe. She was performing a potion that even he had not yet mastered, a volatile mixture whose failure could scorch stone and bone alike. And yet, there was no hesitation, no tremor of uncertainty in her movements. Every stir, every sprinkling of rare powders, every murmured incantation was perfect.

A bead of sweat formed at her temple, but it was the mark of concentration, not fear. Her eyes glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the cauldron’s dancing flames like twin obsidian mirrors. The air around her shimmered with latent power, the kind that even seasoned mages approached with caution.

Veyrion’s lips pressed into a thin line, a soundless hiss of astonishment threading through the shadows of his mind. He had seen prodigies before, young sorcerers brimming with raw talent, but none with such control over forces that could twist the very fabric of reality. The realization prickled at him, an unfamiliar flutter of apprehension—he had underestimated her.

She stirred the mixture, adding a crystalline powder that flared into a small arc of silver sparks, and the potion responded, bubbling with iridescent light. The flame hovered above the cauldron, defying gravity, humming with a resonance that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Veyrion’s hand twitched, the instinct to intervene warred with the stark acknowledgment that intervention was unnecessary. She was doing it perfectly.

A shadow fell over the cauldron, and she didn’t flinch. He was close now, barely a foot behind her, but she did not notice his presence. His eyes, narrowed with both curiosity and a twinge of reluctant pride, traced the meticulous choreography of her hands. The potion, dangerous even by his standards, remained stable, responding only to her will.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if she surpassed him entirely—not just in raw power, but in understanding, intuition, the subtle mastery that came from centuries of study. It was a thought that should have unsettled him, yet instead, it sparked a dark amusement. Perhaps this was the purpose of time, he mused: to prepare the world for her.

The flame above the cauldron pulsed, and in the glow, he saw her face, calm yet radiant with focus, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was not merely replicating the work of past masters; she was shaping it, bending the impossible into a pattern only she could perceive.